I am confused. Why is the couple supposed to feel better about having an abortion and cutting the obviously living baby’s life short? Why is that supposed to be better than letting nature take its course and delivering the stillborn baby? Is it because it’s less trouble for the parents? So they can get the baby’s death over and start the grieving process sooner? Wouldn’t it be harder to be the cause of my baby’s death after seeing an ultrasound, as they did? It seems to me there IS only one choice, to let this baby live as long as possible.

Here is the problem with the logic of this video. This guy is upset because he put great value in the 16 week old fetus that he calls “our baby”, but his lack of understanding for what these protesters are trying to do seems to give no value in the other “babies” that are killed at this location. He says it was one of the most difficult days of their lives, but has NO EMPATHY for the other babies murdered there and those trying to prevent their deaths.

Abortion – it’s an ugly term.  It has a deservedly harsh connotation to it, conveying an untimely ending and something gone horribly wrong.

My son and daughter-in-law had to make a decision to terminate their pregnancy recently, a pregnancy nearly four months along.  They chose to do it, although in reality there was no choice.  But it was still incredibly difficult.

Their baby – my grandchild – had a rare and fatal congenital birth defect called Sirenomelia, otherwise known as Mermaid Syndrome.  Due to a vascular malfunction, the baby’s legs were fused together.  The baby had no bladder, no kidneys, and no chance of surviving.  The defect occurs once in about every 100,000 births.

The pain this caused my son and his wife, who very much wanted this second child, is indescribable.  You cannot possibly fathom the depths of their despair unless you have been in a similar position.  And while nowhere near as bad, the pain of having to watch our children go through this is something my wife and I pray we never have to experience again.

Our kids handled their situation with all the class, dignity and responsibility human beings can be expected to muster.  We are so proud, even as our hearts break for them.  Their strength and devotion to one another and their two-year-old son is the stuff of legends.

But their ordeal was made even more unnecessarily awful by the politics and social controversy surrounding the abortion issue.  On one of the worst days of their lives, they became victims again – this time at the hands of those trying to do God’s work while in fact doing just the opposite.

Although my daughter-in-law was treated at a major Boston hospital, the time-sensitive nature of the procedure necessitated it be done at an affiliated establishment.  After she and my son mustered the necessary courage and emotional strength to get where they had to go, they were met by something they had not considered in their grief – abortion protestors.

Two women were picketing outside the establishment, carrying signs and “communicating” with women walking in the door.  One carried a sign of religious symbolism.  As my son and his wife tried to enter the building where they would lose the baby they already loved so much, they were approached by the women.

“You’re killing your unborn baby!’ was the remark they would remember most as they walked past.  They were both furious and devastated, but held their tempers and concentrated on what needed to be done.  But once my daughter-in-law was in surgery, my son decided to take on the protestors.

In a calm but firm tone, he told them of his wife’s condition.  How they had accosted her at the most vulnerable point in her life.  How they had hurled accusations when they had no idea of the circumstances.  How they claimed to be protecting, yet seemed more intent on hurting.  And better yet, he recorded the entire conversation on his cell phone and posted it on his internet blog.

These particular protestors care about the unborn, but apparently are not concerned with those who have already come into the world.  They made no attempt to discover the circumstances and just assumed this was a couple ending an unwanted pregnancy.  To them, my kids were simply collateral damage in an ongoing war – the price to be paid for later success.

This column is not about a woman’s right to choose, although I have my own opinions on that matter.  It is about the culture of hatred and disrespect that people today foster when they single-mindedly focus on one goal to the exclusion of nearly all else.  It is about allowing the end to justify the means.

I am so proud of my son, and perhaps even more proud of his wife.  At a time of great personal turmoil, they did not just retreat inside their own grief – though no one would have blamed them.

Rather, they cared enough to take the time to explain to these people how their actions can destroy others.  How their words can scar forever.  How nothing is ever as clear or as simple as it seems.

I love them dearly, and I will never forget the lessons they have taught us all.

I remember when we told everyone we were expecting our first child. It was spectacular. Everyone was so happy. And not just feigned happiness either, I’m talking zippety-doo-da, nitrous oxide overload happy. The plethora of reactions when you tell loved ones you’re pregnant for the first time include just some of the following:

THE SORORITY SCREAM: This (usually) happens when the expectant mother tells her female friends she’s pregnant for the first time. The result is an ungodly, shrieking, shrill sound that only women seem to be able to produce. They hold hands, hug and then jump up and down screaming like friggin’ banshees to the point where you need to block your ears for safety reasons. It is heart-warming, yet truly frightening all at the same time.

THE WATERWORKS: You’ve all seen this one. You tell someone you’re pregnant with your first kid and they immediately break down in tears of joy. The faucet gets turned on and there’s no stopping it. They cry, they hug you, they ask a few questions, they cry and then they hug you again. It’s actually very cute.

STUNNED SILENCE: This one is probably my favorite, if only because it elicits what I feel is the most genuine reaction of them all. You tell someone you’re pregnant and they’re so taken aback, they have absolutely no idea what to say or do. It takes a good 2-3 minutes for them to realize what it is you’re telling them, and still they have to ask you 3-4 times “Are you serious? Seriously??”

Whether they scream, jump up and down or give you 5,000 hugs, it’s always momentous and it’s clear that what’s happening is a big freaking deal.

But the second kid? Not so much.

Seriously, no one gives a shit that you’re pregnant for a second time. I mean sure they care and they’re happy for you. But they’re not thrilled. They’re not orgasmic with joy over your impending bundle of same. It’s more like “Nice, congratulations” or “Cool. Good for you guys.” But when you’re used to all the fanfare, it’s a marked departure from the first time.

And I guess that makes sense. It’s like a football team that surprised everyone and is just happy to be playing in the Super Bowl, compared to the squad of seasoned veterans who have won the big game in the past.  Act like you’ve been there before.

And perhaps the funniest thing was my two co-workers getting drunk one night about a month ago (before we announced the news) and telling me how “fucking crazy” I was for even thinking about having another one. It’s OK Jake and Steph, I had similar thoughts myself.

Not to mention when you think about it, it’s more than a little creepy at how excited everyone gets for a pregnancy. Really. People are congratulating you and saying “Nice job buddy.” Essentially they’re giving me props for having functional sperm, and praising MJ for her ability to produce an egg that is capable of being fertilized. And they’re openly cheering us for having sex, which I think is a little personal. They might as well be saying “Yeah! Nice job on ejaculating inside of your wife and depositing your sperm in such fashion as they infiltrated her fertile egg.”

I’m getting off track.

I realized my biggest worry is that I’M not as excited as I was the first time around. I know what to expect this time. I’m a grizzled veteran. I’ve been through the OB/GYN appointments, the ultrasounds, the big belly, the mood swings and the actual birth itself. And yes, I know a monkey wrench can be thrown into the process and that no two pregnancies are ever the same. But that’s for the mom. Here in DadLand we have a slightly more hands-off role until the baby is born. And while I know this won’t hold true, I just can’t imagine loving anybody or anything as much as I do Will.

Parents of more than one, did you have similar feelings? And what was it like when the second one was born?

“What the hell are you always doing on that computer?”

Ever since I started my blog and began dabbling in all the corresponding social media accoutrements, that phrase has escaped my wife’s lips on multiple occasions.

I don’t blame her. My wife, bless her heart, is largely ignorant of all things Internet so it’s not surprising for her to ask that question. In her mind I should just write my post, put it online and be done with it. So she’s always surprised to see me on the computer so much during the day, and at all hours of the night. I simply tell her I’m “doing stuff for the blog” and that has always sufficed. But today, for some reason, it wasn’t enough.

“There’s no way you’re spending all this time on the computer just for your blog,” she said. “Tell me what you do.”

So we sat down and I provided her a detailed account of what it’s like being an active blogger. I know some of you are old pros at this and I’m preaching to the choir, but if there’s anyone reading who’s thinking about starting his own site, please allow me to provide you a little insight into the amount of work necessary to even come close to succeeding.

Assuming you have your domain and you’ve set up your Web site (all things my brother Nate did for me), now it’s time to post some content. Some people make a point to post every single day. Others, like myself, spread it out over the week. Personally I only post if I feel I have something of substance to share with you all. I stay away from reviews, giveaways and I try never to bore you with recaps of my day. Content is king, and I work very hard to always make it interesting for my readers. So even though I may only post 2-3 times a week, rest assured I’m spending a lot of time crafting those entries.

But getting to the point where you can hit the “publish” button is just the beginning.

So you’ve written the world’s best blog entry. Congratulations. But if you don’t have any fans then it’ll be wasted on the three family members currently reading your blog. So you need a following. And the quickest way to do that, is via social media.

You need a Twitter account. Facebook is essential as well. Whatever your subject matter is, there’s surely a whole network of people who share the same interest. For some people it may be Transgendered Furries with Foot Fetishes. In my case, it’s parenting. So I would go to Twitter and Facebook and enter a series of search terms for dads, moms, parents, parenting, fathers, fatherhood, etc. You’ll soon find lots and lots of people who are currently talking about topics similar to the one you’re blogging about. So you add them as friends.

I call that planting the seed.

But as anyone with a green thumb knows, planting a seed is just the beginning. Then you need to water it and tend to it as it grows, in the hopes one day you can smoke it. In the blogging world, that means gathering Twitter friends and Facebook fans, and making sure every single one of your posts shows up on both places complete with a link back to your blog. Then you should join a core group of people and follow them and their work. And you can’t just do it half-assed either. You need to really pay attention to these people. You need to go to their sites and leave pertinent comments. You need to “re-tweet” their Twitter conversations to your audience, because they’ll do the same for you. Then you’ll start to appear on Twitter Lists so people can find you easier. Eventually, if you’re really into it and you do things the right way, you’ll begin to carve out your own niche as well as join a group of like-minded people who are all spreading the love around and giving each other more and more hits and unique visitors.

I scratch your back, you scratch mine. Just like in real life only at warp speed.

Eventually you fall in with Web sites such as Dad-Blogs and the Good Men Project, and maybe they’ll accept you as a contributor. Now you have your audience plus their platform as well. So now you’ve got your Web site, your Twitter account, your Facebook page and perhaps some contributing or guest blogging gigs at various sites. You’re hooked up and plugged in.

The only problem is you’re teetering on overload.

I have a full-time job, so I can’t do this stuff during the workday. I write early in the morning, late at night and on weekends. And, from time to time, I have to deal with a pesky 2-year-old and do the whole dad thing. So in my “spare time,” I need to catch up on a day’s worth of 330 Twitter friends, Facebook peeps, see what I missed at Dad-Blogs, comment to the comments people left on my own site and plan out some future content in the hopes of driving my hits up.

And you can’t ever stop. Because even a few days of inactivity will result in a precipitous drop in readership. Your Twitter followers will go down faster than Rosie O’Donnell on Ellen Degeneres. MJ wanted to know if I could totally disregard my blog and all that goes with it next month when we drive down to North Carolina for vacation. I told her absolutely not. Because in this age of instant gratification and a million and one voices all straining to be heard, you will be forgotten if you dilly-dally.

Not to mention, I’m completely and hopelessly addicted. Between my laptop and my Blackberry, I freak out if I’m not connected to the Internet somehow. At this point I have about a month to go before I’m mainlining coffee and sucking down cigarettes outside of a 12-step meeting for online junkies.

When all is said and done, I figure I spend 15-20 hours a week on my blog and related social media. Basically, it’s become a part-time job. Thankfully it seldom feels like work because I love it, and the people I’ve connected with are some truly talented and amusing motherfuckers. But if you really want your blog to stand out and have any shot at success, you need to REALLY work at it. It’s much more work than I ever anticipated, but that’s offset by the fact that it’s three times as rewarding.

How about you experienced bloggers and social media gurus? Any tips or anything to add?

CHECK OUT FATHERHOOD FRIDAY OVER AT DAD-BLOGS, WHERE I HANG OUT WITH OTHER DADS WHO NEGLECT THEIR CHILDREN IN THE NAME OF SOCIAL MEDIA AND INCREASED SITE TRAFFIC.

]]> http://www.daddyfiles.com/2010/04/30/bloggin-aint-easy/feed/ 14 http://www.daddyfiles.com/2010/04/23/what-kind-of-dad-am-i/ http://www.daddyfiles.com/2010/04/23/what-kind-of-dad-am-i/#comments Fri, 23 Apr 2010 04:01:32 +0000 DaddyFiles1 http://www.daddyfiles.com/?p=2243 The red wagon cruises clumsily through the neighborhood with a blonde-haired boy in tow. All of the sand used to battle winter’s icy roads has collected in small islands on the street, creating a harsh sandpaper effect when sandwiched between the hard plastic wheels and the concrete road. The goofy golden retriever with her tongue hanging out to one side trots happily ahead of the fracas, her tags jingling and announcing our presence wherever we go.

Such is my evening stroll, a nightly ritual now that the warmer weather is here.

The 10-minute walk is the highlight of my day. Work is done, I haven’t started cooking dinner yet, the boy is happy because he’s getting a free ride in his new wagon and the dog is thrilled because, well…she’s a dumbass golden retriever who thinks every person, animal and shiny object she sees is the most exciting goddamn thing the universe has ever produced.

So with a wagon handle in one hand and a leash in the other, I take my .4-mile stroll of zen. Well, actually the zen is often interrupted by picking up piles of my dog’s crap. But I’ll take my zen wherever I can get it. And yesterday, I used that time to reflect on what kind of a dad I am now, and will be in the future.

I’m not sure about all the other fathers out there, but I’m constantly judging myself. And I worry that I’m not doing enough, or that I’m not doing it right. I read about better, more successful and seemingly more devoted dads out there on a daily basis and I’m petrified that I don’t measure up. First off, I don’t stay at home with my son so right off the bat I’m behind in the game. Second, I’m not the breadwinner in my family. Sure I work full time, but for peanuts. My wife brings home the bacon. I pay someone else to watch my son during the day and I don’t provide very well for him financially.

So what the hell is my purpose?

My thoughts were interrupted by a ringing phone. I stopped pulling the wagon for a minute to reach into my pocket and answer. It was MJ. We talked about what she wanted me to cook for dinner and asked how Will did at daycare. I told her chicken, and he did OK. He’s still emotional about sharing and other kids getting attention from our daycare provider, but she and I have agreed on a system where Will has to earn things like outside time and one-on-one time with good behavior. Will started yelling at that point, and MJ couldn’t understand what he was saying. I translated and told her he was shouting for crackers, so I had to go to feed him.

I grabbed the wagon and got things moving again just as we came to the steep hill leading back up to our condo. The dog immediately shot up the hill toward the house (and her dinner) as I strained to rein her in with my right hand. Meanwhile my left arm was completely stretched out in the other direction dragging the wagon up the hill.

I trudged slowly up the incline trying to keep dog and child/wagon in check. With a secure hold on both of them, I inched my way home. Slowly but surely. A little bit at a time.

And that’s when it hit me.

I’m not much to look at. I’m not flashy. I make no money and I’m not a domestic god. But what I am, is dependable. I may not get there in a hurry, but I will get there. Inch by inch, little by little, I make slow but determined progress. I’m like that old station wagon that had a bunch of dings and one of the windows didn’t roll down, but you loved it because it hardly ever broke down. And while it never flew along the highway at breakneck speed, maybe that’s a good thing. Because you all piled in, went on vacations, savored the good times and got there safely.

So I realized I’m an old, rusted beater. Yet somehow I’m very OK with that. Because I am the one who communicates with our daycare provider about what’s best for Will. I’m the one who dresses him in the morning and feeds him at night. I’m the one who translates his babble into English for my wife when she doesn’t understand. Could I do all that if I worked 70 hours a week and made $250,000 a year? Could I really pay attention to the minutiae of toddlerhood, with all of the miniscule yet profound changes that happen on a daily basis? I don’t know. But those are the Ferraris. A better car for sure, but I imagine it’s pretty difficult to catch a glimpse of what’s going on outside when you’re driving that fast.

So I’ll happily be the guy in the clunker, waving as others fly by while enjoying a pit stop with my family on the side of the highway. Don’t worry, I’ll catch up eventually.

CHECK OUT FATHERHOOD FRIDAY AT DAD-BLOGS, WHERE THEIR ENGINES NEVER STOP REVVING.

With the exception of the Derek Zoolander quote, I’m still all those things. But on April 3, 2008, I gained a new and more important identity: Dad.

We didn’t know if you were going to be a boy or a girl when you were born. Well, scratch that. MJ didn’t let the ultrasound technician or the doctors tell us the sex, so technically we didn’t know. But I knew. I knew I was having a son. I was on record from the very start that I’d have a boy and I never wavered. But because we suffered through two miscarriages, I didn’t really care what you were as long as you were healthy. And a boy. So when MJ delivered, I honestly forgot to check whether you were a boy or a girl. I just stared slack-jawed at the doctor holding you, desperately trying to process what had just occurred, while simultaneously being extremely thankful there was a guardrail on MJ’s bed because that was the only thing holding me up after my knees went weak.

The doctor’s voice was the only thing that snapped me out of my trance as he said “Congratulations, dad. It’s a boy.”

Dad? Dad. Whoa…that’s me.

Time passes strangely in a house with a baby. Sleep comes in two-hour intervals. Parents walk around like the  Thorazine-riddled patients in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. It’s a confusing time when everything is in flux. So despite not knowing what the hell I was supposed to do with you, I did the only thing that came naturally. I loved you. Deeply. Like crazy. Sure I made some mistakes, but I dove into fatherhood head first and I never looked back. Because the feeling that swept over me when I watched you sleep or played with your little hands and feet, was something otherworldly.

As you grew, so did I. Six months brought crawling, mimicking and general joyousness. In my brief stint as a dad I gained confidence and skills. I could change diapers like a NASCAR pit crew. I could dress you with ease, although matching your outfits was a different story. I had no problem taking you in the car or out in public, just the two of us. Looking back I realize what a great age that was, because you could only crawl a little and there was no walking. No opening doors. No climbing things. But despite being limited physically, you were gearing up toward your first word and discovering new things about yourself everyday. And getting a front row seat was the most entertaining thing on the planet.

When you turned 1, your accomplishments were coming fast and furious. You had already been walking for three months. You were talking and signing up a storm. And you were frickin’ fearless. Seriously kid, nothing scared you. You may look like me, but I was petrified of everything when I was your age. If something was difficult or scary, I would run away or return to something familiar. But not you. You have your mother’s tenacity and determination. Sure you get frustrated when faced with a difficult problem, but you stare it down and concentrate until you solve it. I admire that and it makes me so proud I could burst.

No longer a baby, but a certified little man. Talking in short sentences, gaining dexterity and hand-eye coordination and grasping concepts left and right. You became decidedly more difficult to contain as you raced to explore the world around you, but I relished the fact that you did it with reckless abandon and without an ounce of hesitation. Not to mention you were the cutest goddamn monkey on the planet for Halloween.

On Saturday you turn 2. Two years old. In some ways it doesn’t seem possible that that much time has gone by. A tick of the clock ago you were a fragile newborn who threw my entire life into upheaval. But in other ways, it feels like you’ve been around forever. Because I truly can’t remember what life was like before you, nor can I possibly picture it without you. When I started dating your mom I fell in love with her instantly. I asked her to marry me because she was the only woman I ever met who made me feel like she had been there all along, and without whom I would cease to exist.

That’s what both you and your mom — who I’m also wishing a happy birthday to on April 4 — are to me. You’re air. You’re food and water. And while it’s not all flowers and pie, being a dad has been the experience of my life so far. Both the good and the bad. But there’s been so much more good. And the gifts you give back to me only increase as you get older. The smiles, the laughter, the “Hi Dadda” comments and the random hugs and “Love yous” are what keeps me going on a daily basis.

I know it’s corny but you’ve made me a better man. And while I’m not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, you make me want to be the best dad possible. You bring joy to everyone you meet. Even strangers. You’re only 2, but I’m so proud of you. I’m in awe of you everyday. And I love you with a depth I didn’t know was possible. And even though I don’t deserve you or your mother,  it is a privilege to be your father.

Happy birthday buddy (and MJ). You’re the best.

CHECK OUT FATHERHOOD FRIDAY OVER AT DAD-BLOGS AND IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR A BIRTHDAY GIFT FOR WILL, HE’S ASKING FOR OPENING DAY TICKETS TO THE RED SOX ON SUNDAY!